


Roy

by RoyEdIsMyAesthetic



Category: Fullmetal Alchemist (Anime 2003)
Genre: Age Difference, Alternate Universe - Nazi Germany, Backstory, Confessions, Eventual Romance, Germany, Letters, Love Confessions, Love Letters, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-10
Updated: 2018-08-10
Packaged: 2019-06-24 16:55:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,739
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15634842
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RoyEdIsMyAesthetic/pseuds/RoyEdIsMyAesthetic
Summary: A letter from Ed to Roy.





	Roy

Roy,

I was about to say that I don’t know where to start, but the fact of the matter is that a small part of me doesn’t want to start in the first place.

I sat down, and wrote a different version of the start of this letter four different times. And I read it over four different times, and I balled up the paper in my hands four different times, and I tossed it away four different times as well. And it was upon this fifth time I touched pen to paper that I realized that maybe the reason for the litter gathering at my feet was not because I didn’t know where to start, but because I knew how much it meant.

And because I was afraid.

A younger me wouldn’t dream of admitting that, but yes, I was afraid.

You see, I’m not good at writing letters. I’m not good at calling. I’m not good at keeping in touch.

And that isn’t because I don’t think of the people in my life while we’re apart, but rather, there’s just something holding me back. I think I’m afraid. And if that is so, it wouldn’t surprise to me, because we as people find ourselves afraid of a lot of things in life. Of opening ourselves up to others. And of being vulnerable. A part of it used to be that I was afraid of looking behind me, but nowadays, I look over my shoulders all the time, looking for something that can’t be. And so I know the fear of being out in the open is all I have left.

This is a detour in itself, but on my way back from work, I sometimes take the scenic route when the weather is nice. I cross over the Reichenbachbrücke, The Reichenbach Bridge, which connects the Au and Glockenbach. At the other side of the bridge, I can pick up the paper. And during the summer months, I see families and rowdy teenagers sunbathe and swim below the bridge on the grassy shores of the Isar. And they smile, and laugh, and push, and shove, and splash, and dance, and frolic, and joke, and smile some more, and there’s something about their bodies... The way the sun hits the droplets of water that cling to their bare skin, and it glistens like a sea of diamonds, and it has this energy that comes with youth. The energy that these people possess makes it seem as if they’re open to something so wonderful. I don’t know if that ‘wonderful’ is the energy that comes with opening yourself up to others. But I imagine that it is. And it is from up above, on the Reichenbachbrücke, with my newspaper in hand, that I know I’m missing something in the way that… in the way that I miss you.

And yet never say so.

When we first started to get to know each other, at the beginning, the very beginning, I was also afraid. I was too young to understand my feelings, and so dark clouds rolled into the storm that already brewed inside of me. And fear turned to anger.

It’s strange to look back and realize that something good started with a passion opposite of what one would expect. But at the same time, I suppose one could find hope in the fact that heavy clouds can absolve themselves of the water they hold, and eventually become something lighter.

Despite the atmosphere of the memory I recalled earlier, I and many others, find that Germany is still a suffering Germany. It was suffering even before The Great War came to an end, and because of the repercussions of our loss to The Allies, the German people are angry. Despite this, I believe that in time, things will change for the better, because I have seen such a thing happen before. But for the time being, people will continue to be angry. And for the time being, I continued to be angry all those years ago.

I hated myself. I hated my confusion. And so what I did was ball up my fists. I would clench my hands so tightly, my fingernails would dig red crescent moons into the skin of my palm. This would happen every time I saw your face. And then later on, it would happen every time I heard your voice. And the thing about faces and voices is that they both have a tendency to become ingrained into your mind, like the welts I bore into my skin.

My anger scared me. I was scared. I was angry. And so I held my head up high. I put my dukes up. I let the blood and sweat run off of my brow and run into my eyes. I let it sting. I let it blind me for a while. I fought whatever I could see, because I refused to believe in little else, especially in what was contained within. I fought like no one had fought before, like it was just me struggling against a headwind. Because I was the savior. Because I was the hero. Because I was the best. Because it was my story, and my story alone, and you, the hated, had no place standing up on a high pedestal. And if a part of me wanted otherwise, it simply couldn’t be, because I was afraid.

If everything I fought for turned out to be for naught, I could fall back. I fall back on my anger. I could fall back on the delusion I had cultivated. And despite everything I held within... when I was young, I was told that I was kind. And I was selfless. And I was righteous. And I was good. And this made me warm, and pliable, and it inflated my ego.

I was good. But I wasn’t in a good place.

I wasn’t in a good place at all...

My emotions and motivations become murky with time, but I think I hated you because you were the one who put me into that position. I was vulnerable in the first place, and my wounds were just a bit too fresh for me to focus on much else without giving it my all.

I wasn’t in a good place.

I stopped writing for a while and started again, so I’m sorry if it seems like there’s a disconnect between this and what came before. I believe I was going to say that people use the previously mentioned phrase as an excuse, or a means by which to justify things. And that’s why I don’t care for those words. I don’t make excuses. And this letter isn’t an excuse for anything either.

Maybe I should take a step back and clarify the purpose of this letter. The purpose of this letter, as you may have concluded already, is not to apologize for my wrongdoings, or for the way I felt and acted in the nineteen years since we first met. And neither is it a confession of my affection, because such a thing has already been professed by means of something stronger than the written or spoken word.

This is  _not_  a love letter.

But in my care… in my kiss, in my smile... in my action… all of which I hope has stuck with you over the years… I hope you have all the affirmation you need. The purpose of this letter is not to affirm, though affirm I would, if affirmation were needed. The purpose of this letter is to state how things came to be. Because that’s just something I feel like I have to share with you. Perhaps, in part, to face my fear of sharing in the first place.

Now, I believe I left off with me in a bad place. And as you may know, it came to be that I found myself in a better place.

I don’t remember when or how that happened. I don’t know what changed. I don’t think that you changed me, because people don’t change other people, people change themselves, and that’s why such a thing is so difficult. But despite this observation, I still don’t remember.

I find that sometimes, when you ‘ve been lost in a dark place, and you step out of that shadow… it’s hard to remember what that shadow was like. You know that you were going through painful things, and you remember that pain, but you don’t remember all the details. Because it was just one thing after the other, and you either did too much to deal, or too little. It was all just one synonymous feeling that you don’t want to return to. And after all of that, after all of that pain, it seems as if it… as if it all just went away.

It couldn’t have been that simple- it couldn’t have been… So now you worry that as quick as the snap of your fingers, the nightmare will return again, and you’ll be back in that pain.

And that’s scary.

I was scared for a while. But after a while, my fear lessened in intensity. Finding nothing else to attribute it to, I now add it up to time taking its toll. I grew up a bit. I slowly relaxed my fists and unclenched my jaw as I let life teach its lessons. I opened my eyes for the first time in a long while. And in the eye in the storm, I saw you. For what seemed like the very first time.

I found respect for you. I found a friend in you. And then…

Well, this part is difficult to recall.

I used to replay the event over and over again in my head. But after a while, I remembered only bits and pieces. Because what was formerly known as an extraordinary event came to seem so incredibly natural. Because I couldn’t see it being any other way. The idea of ‘us’ only made perfect sense.

I was… What was I? I was just barely seventeen. And it was just a regular day, a regular afternoon, and I stormed into your office, making a complaint about the weather, and I remember that you didn’t say anything for a while.

Because you were just looking at me.

You were looking at me in a different sort of way. And it was only after I stepped out onto the street, holding a piece of paper with the address of a coffee shop scribbled onto it, that I realized you had been looking at me in the way I had wanted to be looked at for so very long. And yet was unable comprehend.

Times are changing, and I feel like it’s becoming… a bit out of fashion? Not out of fashion, but out of the ordinary. For me to have been seeing someone so much older, and for you to have been seeing someone so much younger. And I was awfully young... I look back on it now, and I smile, because I’ve grown so much since then.

I’ve walked around a lot since then too. I’ve walked around a lot since we parted ways; you see, I’m not good at writing letters. I’m not good at calling. I’m not good at keeping in touch. And the part that doesn’t really help this situation is the fact that I’m always out and about. I’m always roaming around. I’m always boarding and unboarding the train. Taking trips to Paris. Amsterdam. Fourcés. Vézelay. The countryside. I’m always showing people my ticket. I’m always telling lies. I’m always insisting that I know where I’m going, and I do, but at the same time, I really don’t.

I keep on wandering around.

I think I’m afraid. I think I’m searching for something.

I have a good friend named Noah. She once said I was similar to the gypsies in that I have no home. And she was wrong. And she continues to be wrong, because since the day I opened my eyes and let you into my life, I have always found a home in your arms, and perhaps that’s the something I’m searching for.

The someone.

The special someone I left behind.

It may be unromantic to say, though ‘romantic’ was not the intent of this letter, but you were special… because you were just there.

For everything.

It is in your nature to be there for others. To be kind. To surprise people with your thoughtfulness and your generosity. This is how you are. You conduct yourself in this way when it comes to friends and strangers alike, who find value in these same ideals. And so what matters to me is not the fact that out of every man and woman in Amestris, you looked at me differently, and took me as your lover. What I find value in… and what I love about you... is the fact that you were always there for me.

Through all of this.

You were there for someone so young. Someone so lost. Someone so angry. And someone so very afraid.

As I said before, this is not a love letter. The purpose of this letter is to state how things came to be.

So I can let go...

So I can let go of it...

So I can let go of you.

I don’t know if such a letter has a proper name, for people have trouble saying goodbye, and therefore usually do not wish to dwell on such a thing any longer than they have to. They choke up, and therefore refrain from making long speeches. But I never bade you a proper farewell. I’ve been holding onto my words for a very long time, avoiding the inevitable, and clutching my ‘goodbye’ close to my heart.

A goodbye doesn’t take up a lot of space within the heart.

There is no limit to the space contained within a heart, and that is why one can love many different people in many different ways, all at the same time. But what a goodbye does do is occupy a great deal of your mind. A goodbye is as heavy as a rock, and if you hold onto it, you’ll find yourself drowning. I’ve been feeling myself beginning to drown, and so I know that it’s the time to let go. And I hope… and I pray… that this is something you can understand. Because I  _don’t_  want to understand. I  _don’t_  want to listen to reason. I don’t want to listen to anything at all, I just want… You.

Because this is all very difficult for me.

Because I’m not coming back.

As I said before, I believe that things in Germany will get better someday. Germany is my home. There is no limit to the space contained within a heart, and that is why I can make a home wherever I go.

But I’m not coming back.

With talk of another war starting to become more than just talk, Al and I are leaving Germany behind. We’re setting sail for America, a country across the ocean. I packed my bags- they’re on the floor beside me as I write. On my desk, I have an empty bottle of scotch- your favorite brand as you once stated. And when I’m done writing, I’ll fold this letter up and put it inside the bottle. And I’ll send it off in the Atlantic before the ship leaves port, and I know it’s stupid, I know... Stop smiling… I know that this letter will never get to you. But a part of me hopes that by some miracle, it does. Because I’m not coming back to you.

I’m not coming back.

And you’ll always be in my heart, but you’re not coming with me.

I’m not coming back.

It’s been a few minutes since I wrote that last sentence. I was going to say that I don’t know how to end this letter. But it turns out, that just as I was afraid to bring this letter to a start, I find myself afraid to bring this letter to an end.

This is not a love letter, but I love you.

I love you dearly.

I love you passionately.

I love you so very much.

And I hope this letter finds your way. Just as I have found mine.

 

 

 

Always,

Edward Elric 


End file.
